Animal Death Words in Science & Religion

Just realized that the most common euphemism used to describe killing a research animal when it is no longer needed is the same word used to describe the ritual killing of animals in ancient religions: sacrifice.

Endearing Things Women Do 2

In an effort to apply—but not over apply—perfume, some women will spray a cloud of vapor into the air in front of them, wait a moment for the droplets to dissipate slightly, and then walk into the cloud.

Endearing Things Women Do 1

If a woman's hair is of a certain length—in the vicinity of her chin, for example—and she wants to place a telephone to her ear, she will often tilt their head to one side so that her hair flips away and the phone can be slipped underneath and placed directly against her head.

Somewhere I have a picture of a former girlfriend performing this gesture while making a dinner reservation from our hotel room.

Although I have never discussed it with any of its users, I suspect this time-honored maneuver (I have seen it in movies of the 40s and 50s) is taken as much out of vanity as practicality. The goal is to hear better while preserving the condition of a quaffed head of hair. The result is a cocked-head movement reminiscent of a wolf turning to listen to a distant sound. The woman's eyes dull as she strains to hear the faraway person, and she continues to list a bit to one side until the conversation ends, at which point the woman pulls the phone straight downward, avoiding any contact with hair, and, finally, returns her head to an upright position.

I take a small measure of delight whenever I see this.

The Reasons of Love

There are very few books I can say truly changed the way I look at life and the world, happily and forever. Harry G. Frankfurt's thin volume The Reasons of Love (Princeton, 2004) is one.

A 61-year-old Looks Back on Joyce Maynard

I have always admired the title of Joyce Maynard’s famous essay “An 18-Year-Old Looks Back On Life,” but before today, I had never actually read it. Maynard is three years younger than I am, and her article, written during her freshman year at Yale, was the New York Times Magazine cover story on April 23, 1972. As legend has it, the piece drew the attention of the reclusive J. D. Salinger. The two exchanged many letters, and when summer came, Maynard left college (never to return again), moved into Salinger’s Cornish, New Hampshire home, and began a ten-month-long relationship with the 53-year-old author of The Catcher In The Rye.

It is easy to see what appealed to Salinger about the essay. Maynard is very bright and a remarkably observant writer—especially for someone who was only a college freshman. The piece is far more embedded in a particular cultural period in the United States (the late 1960s and early 1970s) than Catcher, but the offbeat sensibility of the author is not unlike that of Holden Caulfield. Maynard writes entertainingly about pot smoking (she didn’t), the Unitarian church, Leave It To Beaver (I was also a fan), her senior year of high school at Phillips Exeter Academy, and the antiwar presidential campaign of Eugene McCarthy. Maynard had already written several pieces for Seventeen magazine, but “An 18-year-old Looks Back On Life” made her a celebrity. She went on to have children and write many books, including a memoir of her relationship with Salinger, but this article, written in youth, will probably always be her most famous publication.

One of the Rhythms of My Life

1. Take cold cup of coffee or tea in hand.
2. Open microwave door.
3. Remove cup I forgot to retrieve X hours before.
4. Insert cup.
5. Turn on microwave.
6. Plan to return when the cup is hot.
7. Repeat.

Catholicism & Dentistry

For me, visiting the dental hygienest is a very Catholic experience. I lie under a drape and confess to the venial sins of inadequate brushing and almost no flossing, and I feel great pangs of guilt. After putting me through some minor uncomfortableness, my uniformed confessor gently chastises me and sends me home to perform the dental equivalent of a dozen Hail Marys.

I leave the office feeling much better.

Some Recent Tweets

stuartvyse stuartvyse 

Observations about my gym: Very few men who go there wear scarves. #JustMe

stuartvyse stuartvyse 

Making pizza in the shape of Iowa for dinner. Could be the beginning of a Primary-Caucus Pizza Challenge. #SuperTuesdayMightBeAProblem

stuartvyse stuartvyse 

hoping college-aged daughter is not too old to go to Muppet movie with me. #youngkidneededforcover

stuartvyse stuartvyse 

A good day of teaching is a good day. #ILoveMyJob

Great Under-appreciated Invention #2: The Styptic Pencil

I’ve never been all that good at shaving. This odd and somewhat barbaric cultural custom requires a substantial degree of patience and care, but when the time comes to remove the morning stubble, I am always in a hurry. Today’s high tech disposable razors are remarkably sharp, and I am not safe with one unless I’ve used it way past the usual disposal time and it is as dull as a butter knife. As a result, I often nick myself creating tiny bleeders that would be a great embarrassment out in the world.

Enter the messy, chalky, but completely essential styptic pencil. Yes, it stings a bit, but I don’t mind. The stinging tells me I’ve hit the right spot, and the astringent is doing its job. And it never fails. A quick dab with this wet rock immediately stanches the bleed. If I forget to wash my face off later, the pencil leaves unattractive white marks behind, but I find they come off in the shower without restarting the flow of blood. Amazing. I keep one at home and in my traveling toiletry bag.

I don’t know who first introduced me to the styptic pencil, but I would like to thank whomever it was in absentia. You did me a great service. In turn, I have carried on the tradition by giving my son his first styptic pencil when became a shaver.

Great Under-appreciated Invention #1: The Rubber Band

I am starting a new category of entry: Great Under-appreciated Inventions, and the honor of GUAI #1 goes to the rubber band (AKA elastic band), patented in 1845 by Stephen Perry, a British inventor and business man.

I have a deep love of office supplies in general, but I particularly love the rubber band. Elastics have limitless possibilities. The world is populated with so many loose things in need of binding, and the rubber band provides a daily hedge against entropy.

A simple yet elegant invention. I keep plenty of them around, both at home and in the office.

Thank you Stephen Perry.

Overheard on a Flight from Tampa to New Orleans

Four bachelor-partying men discussing (a) the best ways to encourage wives to lose weight and (b) how to avoid getting into fights with a member of the group who was reputed to be a bad drunk. All over Bloody Marys at noon.

Simple Pleasures: Comfortable Socks

Despite being way down there at the ends of our legs, feet are remarkably sensitive appendages. When struck or stubbed, they smart viciously, and over many centuries of mutual exploration, lovers all over the world have discovered the unique erogenous electricity of the tender regions of the foot.  But in the cooler months of the year, few things can compare to the soft caress of a good pair of socks. They protect us from hard edges and unyielding surfaces and hold our most distant parts in a warm embrace. Whether slipped into a shoe or worn alone, good socks are good friends.

Christopher Hitchens on Mortality

It is horrible to see oneself die without children. Napoléon Bonaparte said that.

What greater grief can there be for mortals than to see their children dead. Euripides said that. 

When we talk about mortality we are talking about our children.

I said that.

                  From his review of Joan Didion's forthcoming book Blue Nights.

A Perfect Commercial Experience

Joined an online audiobook subscription service. Downloaded two great books (Skippy Dies by Paul Murray and State of Wonder by Ann Pachett) at no charge, as part of the introductory offer. Listened to them.
A couple of months pass, and I am having difficulty getting into the audiobook website. Password doesn’t seem to work. Maybe I forgot it, but my efforts to reset my password all fail. Worrisome, but I am not too concerned because no charges have appeared on my credit card statement.
Eventually I get an email indicating that there was a problem signing me up for the service and that, as a result, my subscription has been terminated.
Smile.

Finding Peace in the Face of a Young Boy

I know a couple, each of whom is very accomplished. They are highly educated, and they are both experienced diplomats. They have served as advisors to our government and to the governments of several other countries. If the wars we are fighting ever come to an end and we are able to find the kind of satisfying peace that so many of us yearn for, these two, the man and the woman, will have played an important part in bringing us to that happy ending.

I also know that this man and woman had a child, a daughter, who died very young. Eventually they had another child, a boy, and this boy recently marked his fifth birthday. I have seen the couple with their son, and I have seen pictures of the boy at his fifth birthday party.

These two have much to offer the world. They are capable of things that others could not possibly do. I know they have a deep desire to contribute to peace and understanding, and they have dedicated their lives to service in an effort to bring that about. But I have also seen them with their son. I have watched the expressions on their faces and the way they attend to everything their little boy does. As important as their work is, it is obvious what matters to them. There are reports, diplomatic visits, and policy statements that must be made. But the most important thing in the lives of this man and this woman is their son.

If we ever find peace, it will be because of love. The love of adults for each other and especially the love of parents for their children. If, like this couple, more of us could extend the love we find within our families to the larger family of people beyond the borders of our homes and nations, we might just get there.

Axiom of Domestic Life

When there are no coffee cups left, it is time to do the dishes.

Relationship Advice for Men

Beware of women who, upon entering your home, begin to wipe the counters, adjust the lighting and ventilation, fiddle with the stereo, and reorganize the cupboards.

Why Good Writers Are Not Always Great Conversationalists

“Reading, study, silence, thought are a bad introduction to loquacity.” —William Hazlitt


Source: "Why Good Writes Aren't Good Talkers," a review of Arthur Krystal's collection of essays, "Except When I Write: Reflections of a Recovering Critic" by Mary Jo Murphy. Krystal used the Hazlitt quote in one of his essays.

So Long, See You Tomorrow

Published in the Providence Journal on August 13, 2011

NEW LONDON

I recently met up with an old friend, and we reminisced about our high-school days 40 years ago. It was fun to share those memories with him, but I was also filled with a sense of regret about some of the things we did.

All high schools have their pariahs, whose function it is to protect the honor of those who cannot achieve status by any other means. When all else fails, denigrating the lowest of the low separates you from them. Looking back, two cases stand out for me.

One was a willowy girl prone to long dresses and distant gazes. She had straight brown hair that ran down to the middle of her back, and she was naturally taciturn. Apparently friendless, she was often seen dancing in the park at lunch. In those days we were allowed to go outside during the lunch hour, though we were not supposed to leave the school grounds. Some kids never returned, but school officials were willing to accept a small loss of inventory in the afternoon.

Across from school there was a small park, and in nice weather this girl could be seen swaying and bending alone in a manner that combined ballet movements with modern dance. She often appeared to be initiating a kind of communion with the trees, who, despite her invitations, did not join in.

During adolescence everyone is so worried about how their own behavior will be judged that anything unusual in others is quickly labeled aberrant. It is an age when the codes of social conduct are remarkably strict. Seen from a distance, this young girl’s dances looked very strange to us, and she was immediately assigned to the school’s unofficial loony bin.

Although we thought she was crazy, perhaps because she was a girl and most of my friends were boys who retained a shred of chivalry or who, like me, were afraid of the opposite sex, we did not subject her to overt teasing. We made fun of her behind her back, but we left her alone. The same could not be said of one boy I remember.

This young man was the unchallenged winner of the loser contest. He was a general law of social science: the one kid you could deride with impunity. It was safe to make fun of him at any time, even if he was standing right next to you. Why? Because he would take it. Despite being bigger than a number of us, he was so desperate to be included that he was willing to accept the job of verbal punching bag just to have a role.

Physical fights were rare at my high school, but there are different ways to get beaten up. This boy could take any number of verbal punches and keep coming back. Today this would be called bullying, but in those days it was called high school.

Looking back, I am convinced that the young dancer’s only problem was being smarter and more creative than the rest of us. She probably felt somewhat alien in our world and responded by creating a different one in her imagination.

Today the victimized boy would have a label. He might be called cognitively disabled, or perhaps he would be diagnosed with one of the less severe forms of autism. I am not sure it would have made a difference to us. Had he been anointed with a condition — a syndrome with a textbook name — I suspect we might have acted the same way. Or worse.

Sometimes a sense of regret comes with age. The main character of William Maxwell’s autobiographical novel, “So Long, See You Tomorrow,” is a man who, as a child, withheld a simple act of kindness from a friend whose family had been shattered by tragedy and scandal. It was a moment in time when a small gesture might have been very important. A missed opportunity that remained a psychological burden long into adulthood.

Nothing can be taken back. Once done, an action cannot be undone. Often we do or say something without thinking, or in the heat of emotion, and we regret it almost immediately. But sometimes the longing for a different reality comes much later. Time passes; we gain a new appreciation of events; and we discover pieces of our past that we wish had gone differently.

Children act without the benefit of a wisdom that — if we are fortunate — comes later in life. Looking back, it seems fair to forgive our younger selves their youth. We were just kids. We didn’t know what we were doing. It would be easy enough to let it pass. Yet some decisions — particularly those that touched other people — can gnaw at you years later.

I wish I had reached out a bit more to these two fellow students. High school was not a great time for me. I have few happy memories of that period, and when senior year came around, I chose not to buy a copy of the yearbook. But I probably got through my high-school career in better shape than they did, and as a result, I had something I could have given them.

The saddest part is knowing — as I do now — that it might not have taken much effort. Sometimes just a simple thing, like turning to someone at the end of the day to say, “So long, see you tomorrow,” can make all the difference in the world.

Stuart Vyse is a professor of psychology at Connecticut College.

Charles Baxter on Love

The main character of the novel owns a coffee shop.

"Bradley, I don't think you should talk about these things."
"Why not?"
"Some matters you shouldn't verbalize. I mean really, Bradley" ―and here she raised her hand and caressed my cheek―"all this love business is just nature's way of getting more babies into the world. The rest of it is just all this romance nonsense." She struggled for the word. "The rest of it is just superstructure."
"Well, maybe. But what if," I said, still gazing at her, with her sly sexy smile like a little dawn on her face, "what if the love we feel, what if it's central, what if it's what makes the world's soul possible, what if it's what made the world and keeps it running, and the babies are also a product of that, our soul-making, not the only product, but..."
 "That's what I mean," she said. "You're so weird and metaphysical. For a coffee guy."   

The Feast of Love, pp. 172-173.